


To Gild the Lilly

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bars and Pubs, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8320447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: an open mic evening, Porthos sings. Not much happens.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MDJensen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/gifts).



> I was thinking about ways to write physicality. It's a little different, I think, to what I usually... I hope you like it! The song/poem is mine, I wrote it.

Porthos was sat, leaning back from  the mic, hand on his knee. His voice was booming, music abundant, rolling from his body, off his tongue, into the room. He was flush with it, clothes neat lines against it, softened by his body and the music, forehead dark with sweat, skin a little slick with heat, the exertion of creating sound. His generous thigh tensed and relaxed with the beat, foot tapping, knee jogging. His fat stomach rose with each great breath drawn in. He was palatial, profuse, and the music he made was limitless. His audience was wrapt.

 

Open mic night at the Golden Lily was always a grab-bag. The pub was the local for most people nearby, and the patrons were also a grab-bag. Hipster sat with the Old Guy Holding Up the Bar, with the troublemaker teenager, with the soldier on leave. The performers reflected this odd mix of people. A woman who worked construction got up to recite ribald poetry, a man who was a homeless busker got up to play a couple of songs- to be rewarded with a beer and a meal, a couple of students did an acoustic cover of something poppy, the man who walked his dog past every morning and came in for a pint every afternoon sang a slow sad song about loss and grief, a woman in her eighties in jeans and a shirt got up to read out three poems about sex with her wife. And then, as it always did every month, by popular demand, the set ended with Porthos singing.

 

Porthos usually kept the bar, leaning his elbows on it between orders to chat, big shoulders and arms warning people not to make trouble. He moved between bar and bottles with a grace that turned his size from danger to dance, an apron tied about his waist. He had a stool back there to perch on in quiet times, and he’d sit, dwarfing the little round seat, heels on the foot-rest, knees up, arms folded over his ample chest, and watch the rugby. If you came in on those days, and weren’t demanding, you’d get the benefit of Porthos’s commentary. It wouldn’t take you long to realise he knew far too much to be an amature, and you found yourself reassessing his size and heft.

 

“Played much?” you’d ask, and he’d laugh, body vibrating with joy and exhilaration.

 

“Not once,” he’d say, every time someone asked (which was often), hand on his stomach, pleased. “I am indolent.”

 

It was always said with such pride, and he was so good natured and happy about it. You would find yourself, if you stuck around, reassessing your assumptions about his weight often. Like when he’d eat six bags of crisps in one go, to test all the flavours were still good. Or when he’d sit with a deep groan, chair creaking, after making a single lap of the room to collect glasses. Or when he was so pleased and pleasing and his plump cheeks were continually pushed out with gladness, pinked with fat cheer. Or when he’d dance, as he wiped the tables, humming, moving as gracefully as behind the bar. Or when he’d sit quietly, uninterested in the people around him, uninterested in the food on the plate before him.

 

“Porthos!” a voice called from the crowd, as the song came to an end.

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos said, leaning toward the mic, voice soft, contrasting with the cataclysm of his music. “Just lean over the bar, get it yourself. If you nick anything I’ll chop your hands off, you know that. And I will know if you nick anything, Charon, so no thinking. That’ll always get you in trouble. Okay, guys, you want one more?”

 

They did. Porthos always asked, and they always did. He sat back, hands clasped over his stomach, stretched his legs out in front of him, and hummed a few bars. He smiled, a wide, wistful smile that lit his eyes, and told them his next song was for someone. Charon shouted out his own name, and the audience laughed, and threw balled up menus and napkins at him. He was as familiar to the regulars as Porthos was. Shorter, thinner, quieter, he sat at the bar and talked to Porthos almost exclusively, waited for Porthos after work, and was often seen with Porthos around, outside of the pub. Most labeled them old friends. Some remembered them as children, sat up by the bar, Charon’s father teaching them how to pull a pint, playing under the tables, behind the bar. Bouncy round Porthos rolling about after Charon, the taller then.

 

“Nah, not Char, not this time. I have written songs about him, I sang one about burning shit down, last week, remember?” Porthos said, and Charon cursed him cheerfully, then toasted him with a glass of whiskey. “This is for someone brand new. Eh? Didn’t see that one coming, did you now? Yeah, this is a romance, and I am the heroic, handsome lead. Uh-uh, none of that, now, handsome is as handsome does, and I do. I see beauty in all ‘a you, return the favour.”

 

Everyone liked being called beautiful, so that got applause. Porthos sat up straighter again, adjusted the mic so it was closer, then leaned into his hands, rested on his thighs. He played guitar and piano, but he never bothered at open mics, just sat and sang a couple of songs to foster some good-will for the pub, indulge a couple of patrons. This time, he was singing for something different. He bent in still more toward the mic, lowered his eyes, shut them. The song was gentle, bluesy, his voice rasped on some of the lower notes, hitting the bottom of his range. He leant into that, using the tone. A melodious lament, which ached, warm and heavy, settling over the audience.

 

_“The curve of the key typing ‘c’ rounds your hip,_

_The swerve of a tilde arches your lip,_

_The twist of the ‘s’ brushes curls through your hair,_

_The little black letters have laid you quite bare._

 

_Your heart’s in the way that the letters have formed,_

_Your mind’s in the thoughts that the words have warmed,_

_Your body is present in each tiny crescent,_

_(the moon that rides high in the crease of your thigh)._

 

_Blurring of our voices crossing continents by satellite_

_Orbiting, igniting, darkdelighting dreaming skies,_

_Holding words that we have whispered over, over,_

_Space defying distance by the beauty of the lover._

 

_God has long forsaken distant lovers in the stories,_

_But I cradle you the deeper, tangling in melodies,_

_Longing for a body more than letters can compose,_

_A name will smell of nothing, for that you need the rose._

 

_The curve of the key typing ‘c’ round your hip,_

_The swerve of a tilde arching your lip,_

_The twists of the ‘s’ brushing curls through your hair,_

_The little black letters are laying you bare.”_

 

Porthos accepted his applause, and walked back toward the bar, gait carelessly controlled, brimming out over the tables as he cleared the glasses, compensating for his feet’s thoughtless progression with a shifting centre of gravity, shimmying himself behind the bar as d’Artagnan took the mic to make the thanks, name the participants, and remind the patrons that the bar would be open the rest of the night.

 

_What’ll it be?... fucked him with a …  küsste uns alle… What can I get you?... hilarious joke, listen, okay, a joke... Pint or a half?... rumbled me good and proper… ref was having a laugh... Lemonade on tap or from the fridge? … ridiculous, used to be two quid...That’ll be eight and twelve. Two ninety… Fleisch ohne Knochen...  A fiver square, love…_

 

Tonight was busy, and there was barely a pause between orders for Porthos to set his elbows down and get in a chat. Charon sat quietly on the end of the bar while Porthos turned between patrons and bottles, joined by d’Artagnan once the mic was down, shaking and pouring and working the taps. The two of them had a rhythm between them, twisting and pushing past, passing orders between them, keeping up a patter with the patrons. Last calls came at one am, an old fashioned schoolbell rung by hand clattering over the thick crowd, Porthos’s voice bursting over the barrage of voices.

 

The German boys from three streets over, regulars for the past four years since they turned eighteen, were the last to leave, shouldered out by Porthos over their demands for a last pint. The door was locked and the sign turned, blackout-style blinds rolled over the windows. Porthos sat heavily in one of the chairs and blew out his breath. d’Artagnan perched on the bar. Charon finished up his drink and started wiping down surfaces while the other two caught their breath. Porthos was the first to stand, stretching out his back and shoulders, starting to flip the chairs on top of the tables.

 

“Kitchen staff did a deep clean tonight so leave that entirely, even sweeping,” Porthos said. “Sweep out here and do a quick mop, I’ll sort the bar. Charon, you waiting or going?”

 

Charon waited, and was sent out into the small courtyard to gather glasses. Athos came wandering out from his dishwashing station in the back and leaned on the bar, in Porthos’s way. d’Artagnan was a student, pulling five shifts a week, writing a lot of his dissertation at the bar in quiet moments and reading in his breaks. Athos was different. Most would not recognise him, know him, or figure him as important to anyone. He kept out of the bar when the patrons were in, stayed at home in his free time, and his only friends were Porthos, and possibly d’Artagnan.

 

“You sang our song,” Athos said.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos grunted, turning to do something else when he couldn’t fit himself past Athos.

 

“That was a long time ago,” Athos says.

 

“Yes,” Porthos said.

 

“You don’t talk to me on Tumblr and the phone across oceans,” Athos said.

 

“Skip to the end,” Porthos said.

 

“Why do you still sound as if it aches?” Athos asked.

 

Porthos stopped what he was doing and turned, and he and Athos stared at one another. Porthos smiled slowly, widening and widening, and his arms came up to encircle Athos’s shoulders in a hug, his substantial body soft and yielding. Charon came back in with the glasses, cluttering them onto the bar at the end. d’Artagnan fetched the mop. Athos retreated. The work of closing up rushed, busied, then quieted and came to a grinding stop. Athos emerged once more from emptying the last dishwasher.

 

There was a tap on the door. Porthos turned the key and broke into joyful happiness, body bouncing, apron discarded by now so that the fat of his back and sides and stomach was free to shift with him. The open door let in a gust of rain, the scent of Jasmine, the darkness, the autumn leaves. The four of them, Athos, d’Artagnan, Charon, and Porthos bringing up the rear and turning to lock up, exited onto the street. Porthos checked the lock, pocketed the key, and turned to Constance.

 

“Did you have a good evening?” d’Artagnan asked, taking her hand. She tipped her head back to smile at him.

 

“I did. Sylvie says to pass on her greetings and well-wishes,,” Constance said.

 

“The curve of you hip hits middle ‘c’, the centering note of piano keys,” Porthos whispered, humming, coming along at the back of the group.

 

“My hips aren’t really very curvy,” Athos said, dropping back, letting the others drift off into the darkness.

 

“I imagined you differently,” Porthos said, holding out an arm to offer Athos warmth for the walk home. Athos accepted, slotting himself in. “Our bodies entangle in ‘o’ and ‘i’ of phi, the joints of your knees creak like stuttering ‘y’s.”

 

“‘Y’ doesn’t creak,” Athos said. “How did you imagine me?”

 

“Like a little rounded hobbit,” Porthos said. “The joints of you tuck like a greater than sign?”

 

“My knees don’t creak, either,” Athos said. “Why did you sing that?”

 

“I missed you,” Porthos said. “Tucked away in the back, like a hermit, so busy I couldn’t stop to kiss you now and then the way I like.

Capital ‘a’s for the ace of your heart, and mine,

oh, close this chasm of time,

bring me my love.”

 

“Dramatic,” Athos decided.

 

The Golden Lily was fifteen minutes from the small flat Porthos owned. The flat was at the top of the building, right under the roof so the rain staccatoed over them when it came gusting in. There were six flights of stairs. Porthos walked up ahead, pushing himself up in light springing bounces, body bumping the wall at the hip and shoulder. He made it to the top breathless, unlocked the door and barrelled into the flat. He heaved himself out of his shirt in the hallway, the buttons coming out with quick agile flicks before he twisted and peeled himself out of the tight arms. Athos took the tank, tight over Porthos’s chest and stomach. He stood, skin bare to the warmth of the flat.

 

“Do you want to go to bed?” Athos asked.

 

“Yeah, in a minute,” Porthos said.

 

Porthos walked into the bedroom and took off his trousers and boxers, his socks. He stood naked. He was a colossus, as Helios over Rhodes. The height and breadth and rotundity of him, replete with good health. Head towards heaven, listening to the rain, he breathed like a great planet, pulling Athos into his orbit.


End file.
